


Stretched Tight Over Skin

by entanglednow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe, Angst, Demon Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows what it feels like to come home and find everything you own scattered and smashed, rooms full of the heavy, invasive tread of strangers. It was like that inside his own head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stretched Tight Over Skin

It hadn't been like waking up at all. It was more like a jump cut, discordant and sudden, body taut and aching like someone had shaken it and left it to settle wrong.

Stiles remembers the chair, he remembers the tacky feeling of blood in the back of his throat, and under his fingers. He remembers staring down at the trap inked into the concrete, bled into it, beneath his dusty sneakers. 

He knows what it feels like to come home and find everything you own scattered and smashed, rooms full of the heavy, invasive tread of strangers.

It was like that inside his own head.

-

Chris doesn't say a word for the drive back, shoulders stiff inside his jacket, careful when he moves like he's wrenched something and it's still healing. His bandaged hand keeps fussing with the stereo, and his face is bruised and tired. Stiles can tell by the tension that Chris is forcing himself not to watch him. Not to treat him like a threat. There's nothing Stiles can say to that. Though he can feel the thump of words in his throat. He's not used to holding them back. He doesn't feel like himself. Which makes it worse.

So he forces himself to talk, voice brittle and numb, and Chris relaxes, just a fraction.

-

Stiles claims the bathroom when they stop at a cheap motel - he can't help but feel like they're running from something, something he'd done?

His hands are shaking over the sink, and he can't make them stop. He doesn't know how long he's been awake, doesn't know what his body's gone through. He feels like an alcoholic, the past a long, hurt stretch of blackouts and guilt. But Chris has taught him too much - he can't pretend that he doesn't know all the things that might have been. He can't help but wonder if they're still there somewhere, curls of darkness in his head, him but not him, like an FPS gone wrong.

There's no blood under his fingernails, but that doesn't mean anything. When he looks up he expects to see Chris's face over his shoulder, to hear the same sigh he always gives when Stiles is fussing over his injuries, complaining about nothing. The way he'll ease Stiles's face to the side, murmuring some sort of reassurance and telling him not to be a child, fingers careful but efficient. Stiles remembers that had been the first time he'd hooked his fingers into Chris's jeans, clumsy and obvious, and too high on adrenaline to know what the hell he was doing, or if it was a good idea. He's always just jumped in, never looking where he was supposed to land.

Only Chris is still in the doorway, five feet away, face blank - though the second he catches Stiles looking it works itself into something familiar, something that's trying to be reassuring. But he's never been very good at it. After a minute he stops trying, and the doorway's empty again. Stiles tries not to feel like everything's wrong. But his skin still doesn't feel right, and it scares the hell out of him.

He finds his phone in his pocket, exactly where he left it - whenever he was still him - before. He doesn't know how long. He doesn't even know what day it is.

There are messages.

Stiles reads them all, then breathes short and harsh against the sink, fingers gripping it so hard they go numb.

_He thought I was you._

-

Chris won't let him touch any of the weapons.

"I can't," he says, almost an apology, but an accusation too. "Stiles, just give me time." And space, he doesn't say it but Stiles can feel it, and he knows Chris isn't going to tell him anything that he did. He can feel the silence stacking up like a wall. Chris will protect him from that, and just the thought that Chris thinks he needs to be protected - Stiles doesn't want to know what happened. He doesn't want to know what caused the curve of dark skin across Chris's face. Or the wary stiffness to his shoulders. He's afraid to speak, because he knows the questions will come out, knows that he'll find anger behind this numb horror, and he can't. He just can't. Everything is wrong, but Chris is still holding himself too tightly. So Stiles pushes it down, internal tension a blinding pressure behind his eyes. Like it belongs to someone else.

_I said too many things you can't take back. Your mouth, your tongue, your voice._

-

Chris unwinds the bandage on his hand to redress it.

There's a spiderweb of red, like it was smashed into something sharp. Stiles is reaching out to touch it before he thinks about it.

"Don't," Chris says, hand curling into a fist. The scabs split and bleed and he hisses and relaxes it, flexes it carefully. 

Stiles draws his hand back.

"It wasn't -"

"I know." The hard clack of teeth makes his own hurt. "I fucking know that." Chris takes a breath, and another. "I know that."

_I promised to take good care of his daughter. You wouldn't want to go back on a promise, would you?_

_She's the only member of his family he hasn't killed yet._

-

Stiles stays away as much as he can. Gives Chris as much space as he can bear. But it's hard, it's fucking hard, they've been living in each others pockets since - since what happened in Beacon Hills. Stiles doesn't even want to think about going back to before that. But they almost feel like strangers again.

He cleans the car out, all the stupid, minor, shitty details people forget about, because Chris won't let him do anything else. Then he ends up in the bathroom washing blood out of a cut because he can't look at what he's doing.

"What did you do?" Chris asks from the doorway.

"Something stupid," Stiles says without looking up. "Story of my life."

He stills when Chris comes closer, touches his arm, turns his wrist and lifts it to see.

"It's nothing," he mutters, dismissive in that way he has, even when you've broken something. But he's always careful, he is now, twisting his hand further into the light, and this is the closest they've been in a week. Close enough for Stiles to feel the brush of his coat, the warmth of his body.

He doesn't step back when Stiles shifts fractionally closer, and Stiles takes that as...something. As a start, only Stiles has never been patient, has never been able to leave things alone - can't resist turning the inches separating them into nothing.

Chris goes still.

"Sorry," Stiles says, pulling away, because he knows he shouldn't have done that. He knows he's pushing too hard because the thing that wore his face had done damage that wasn't even close to healed yet. "I'm sorry." The last one sounds a lot like a plea.

"Shut up." Chris catches both sides of his face and presses him back against the sink. "Shut up." He bites at Stiles mouth, angry and triumphant, like he's proving that he still can. Under the glare of the light that leaves then both too exposed. Chris shoves Stiles's shirt up and presses in, undoing Stiles's jeans one-handed, vicious almost, until he breathes his way through it, slipping them down his hips with less force. The sink is cold under Stiles's ass, but Chris is warm, and he crowds him there, bites at Stiles's throat and pushes his hand down into his shorts.

"Please," Stiles forces out. "Chris, please." 

A hand strays over his mouth, and Stiles lets it, because he knows that Chris needs it.

_Do you think he'll ever be able to look at you without seeing me?_


End file.
